


The James Holmes Chronicles - Coda

by prettyvk



Series: The James Holmes Chronicles [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Past Abuse, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2020-05-20 21:32:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19385050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyvk/pseuds/prettyvk
Summary: Bits and pieces of James Holmes' life, from age 14 to 32.





	1. 17 - Victory

**Author's Note:**

> What can I say, I just can't let these characters go, despite my muse's reluctance to string words together.
> 
> No schedule. No end in sight. No rhyme or reason to the order in which these will be posted. They will be short. They might stop coming abruptly, or come once a day like clockwork for three months. I know nothing but this: they are, so far, fun to write, which is more than i can say about my 'pro' writing.
> 
> Comments are always treasured, even if i've been slacking in my replies.
> 
> Prompts are encouraged, although with no guarantee, in the form of a number between 14 and 32 and one prompt word.
> 
> Welcome on this new journey.

“We don’t have to.”

Laure has said as much dozens of times before. She’s been saying it for years. It used to be, ‘we don’t have to see that war movie with the others,’ or ‘we don’t have to play paintball with the group,’ or ‘we don’t have to kiss,’ and occasionally, ‘you don’t have to explain yourself.’ And there has been a lot to explain over the years, a lot of things she guessed but didn’t question. It’s always been about what he wanted to say, wanted to do—or not say or do.

Tonight, it’s ‘we don’t have to get in bed.’

James has never, ever doubted that she meant it. He doesn’t doubt that she means it tonight either. He smiles.

“I know. But I want to. Don’t you?”

He doesn’t have time to wonder if maybe she’s changed her mind, or is getting cold feet. Her beaming smile answers that question, as well as the way she taps the mattress next to where she sits, inviting him to join her. He knows she’s been ready—or at least she’s claimed to be—for a very long time. “I knew I wanted you to be my first just a week after we first met,” she told him once. And they’ve had a lot of firsts. Each step has felt momentous to James. Some of them, he told Sherlock about. Others, his therapist. He thinks maybe this is just for him and Laure.

Before he sits next to her, he takes off his shirt. He can feel her eyes on his fingers as he undoes the buttons. He tries not to let that slow him down.

She’s known about the scars for a month. She didn’t ask questions when he told her, didn’t ask who or how or when, but he can see all these words in her gaze when he pulls the shirt off and drops it on a chair, he can hear them in the shaky breath she takes in. When she stands and kisses him, when her fingers dance over his skin, when they tentatively brush against those pale, almost but not quite gone spots scattered over his chest, he doesn’t flinch. More than that, he kisses, touches, caresses her in return.

And they’re just starting, but it already feels like a victory.


	2. 31 - Sweetheart

“Oh my god, she’s a sweetheart.”

As John gushes, peering over the crib, Sherlock keeps silent, looking on from behind him.

He’s never been all that fond of newborns. Too small, too fragile, too noisy, too… new. It’s not like there’s much to see anyway; she’s bundled up in a white blanket, a knitted hat with a little bow on her head. Eyes closed, tiny mouth half open, oblivious to their presence or to her own existence. Oblivious to how much she was desired and wished for—how scared her father was, months ago, when he came to give Sherlock and John the news in person and had his first panic attack in years, long gone fears resurfacing.

_“What if… what if I hurt her? What if I’m like—”_

_“You know who you’re like?” Sherlock told him then. “Yourself. You’re a wonderful son, a loving husband, your patients adore you. Can you really imagine any circumstance in which you’d hurt a child? Any child, let alone your own daughter?”_

Now that she’s here, James looks the happiest Sherlock has ever seen him. Something tightens in his chest; it should hurt, but it really doesn’t.

“Are you finally going to tell us what her name is?” John asks, his tone turning teasing. “So Sherlock can stop pouting that he didn’t guess?”

Sherlock huffs at that, mollified when John runs a hand up and down his back. James and Cara were already beaming, but now they grin at each other, their arms still wrapped around one another.

“Marguerite,” Cara says in her lilting Caribbean accent. “Maggie for short.”

It takes Sherlock a long second to understand why James is looking at him expectantly, why John is turning a smile up at him. He nods once. His mother would have been delighted.

“Would you like to hold her?” Cara offers, and John happily agrees.

Sherlock continues to look on as she picks up the sleeping infant and tries to instruct John on how to hold her—before James, laughing a little, reminds her his dad’s a doctor and knows how to hold a baby. She wakes up, then, maybe at her father’s laugh, maybe at the gentle rocking of John’s strong arms or the rumble of his voice when he asks Cara how she’s been feeling. (She’s tired and still in a bit of pain, Sherlock saw that much when they walked in, but too happy to care. James does all he can to help.) Tiny eyelashes flutter over dark eyes that look all around with something that, in an older child, Sherlock would call curiosity.

“Dad?” James says quietly, touching his arm. “You haven’t said a word since you came in.”

Sherlock blinks a few times before he dares meet his eyes. Whatever bland words of congratulation he was going to offer vanish from his mind. He wishes he had his violin, that would make it easier for him to express how he feels right now. Instead, he opens his arms and draws James into a hug.

“I’m so proud of you,” he murmurs, choking up a little, and closes his eyes tight.


	3. 14 - Textbook

“How was it today?” John asks.

He always asks. He rarely gets more than a ‘Fine’ for his trouble. Sherlock doesn’t bother asking, but he certainly observes every time James comes out of a session. Sometimes, his shoulders are tight, his brow furrowed, his eyes a little red. On those nights, Sherlock pulls out his violin without being asked. At other times, James is more relaxed, quick to share a smile or a laugh. Quick to call Sherlock or John ‘Dad’ without hesitation or second guessing. These are the days when Sherlock thinks their quest to find the right therapist - three in almost a year - is actually worth it.

But maybe it’ll soon be four, because James offer an answer without looking up from his plate and the chicken bits he’s spearing with his fork as though they offended him.

“She thinks I have ‘textbook PTSD.’”

The way he mutters those last two words make it quite clear he’s not happy with that diagnostic. But really, he can’t have been surprised… or was he?

Fast losing his appetite, Sherlock puts down his fork.

“She actually told you that?” he asks, trying to keep his voice mild.

“No, she wrote it. I read her notes upside down.”

John makes a noise that strangely resembles a muffled laugh. Sherlock looks at him, an eyebrow raised questioningly, but John merely shakes his head.

“You’ve only been seeing her for two months,” John points out in his best ‘voice of reason’ tone. “She’s still working out how best to help you. And reading those notes is not going to help. I’m speaking from experience here.”

A glint of curiosity passes through James’ eyes as he glances up at John, a question on his lips. In the end, he doesn’t ask and merely shrugs before returning to stabbing his lunch.

That afternoon, Sherlock makes an excuse to go out, and heads to the same place they went to that morning, a nondescript little house near a park. He usually waits on a bench in the park, but this afternoon he goes into the waiting room.

A middle-aged woman sits there, an e-reader in her hands, a child’s coat across her lap. He settles down to wait. An hour passes before voices in the hallway announce the end of a session. The woman stands, goes to the door. Dr. Osborn looks in absently as she assures the mother everything went well. She does a double-take when she sees Sherlock there. She returns after accompanying her patient to the door.

“Mr. Holmes, to what do I owe the pleasure?” she asks, and sounds like said ‘pleasure’ is entirely metaphorical. He deduced her, the first time they met. She didn’t like it. She deduced him right back. And she was much too accurate for comfort.

“Textbook PTSD,” Sherlock says, standing in front of her. “James read your notes. That bit troubled him enough that within a week I expect he’ll ask to find a different therapist.”

She raises an eyebrow at that. “Is that what happened with the other ones? He didn’t like what they said so you let him run away?”

“Hardly.”

The truth is that the first doctor reminded him of Moran, while the second one talked to him like he was about six years old. That’s for James to divulge to Osborn—if he wants to.

“I’m actually keen on James continuing to see you,” Sherlock grudgingly offers. “On balance, you’ve been helping him more than I expected. But this diagnostic—”

“Is accurate,” she interrupts him. “I’m not breaking confidentiality by saying as much because you knew it already. So I’m not sure what you want from me, Mr. Holmes. Why are you here?”

“Because James is smarter than your average patient, as I’m sure you’ve noticed by now. If you throw a diagnostic at him without explaining or—”

“He read my notes!” she interrupts again, crossing her arms over her chest and rolling her eyes at him. “I didn’t throw anything at him.”

Frustrated, Sherlock runs his fingers through his hair. “What I mean,” he tries through gritted teeth, but can’t go any further. She suddenly raises one imperious finger and, turning on her heel, strides out of the room. After a moment of hesitation, Sherlock follows her to her office. She’s standing by a bookcase, a heavy textbook in her hands, flipping through the pages. When she finds what she’s looking for, she sets the book on her desk, scribbles a note on a post-it that she sticks on the open page she found before closing the book again.

“Give this to him,” she tells Sherlock shortly. “Tell him to bring it back at our next session.”

Sherlock is almost at Baker Street before he opens the book at the marked page. The chapter heading is ‘Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder in Children.’ The note says, “Read this, take any notes you think are relevant, and we’ll discuss in two weeks. Dr. June”

Smiling faintly, Sherlock goes home.


	4. 24 - Over

“So what you’re saying is, it’s over?”

James is almost proud about how level his voice remains. Almost proud that he can speak at all.

On the other side of the table, Laure looks absolutely miserable. She’s tried to hide it since he picked her up at the airport, but now that she’s said what she came back to say, he realizes that look has been there for a while. She’s a good actress, but he knows her too well.

“What I’m asking is, is this long distance thing working for you? Really working? Can you look me in the eyes and tell me you’re happy?”

He does look her straight in the eyes. He hates how shiny they are with tears she’s not shedding—probably not going to shed. She’s not a crier, even in the most emotional of moments.

“It’s been hard,” he says softly. “I miss you every day.”

She nods and covers his hand on the table. Without thinking, he entwines their fingers, the gesture automatic after doing it hundreds, thousands of times.

“And I miss you just as much,” she says with a tremulous smile. “Whenever something happens, good or bad, I want to tell you. Not on a screen, but in person. I want you to hug me, or kiss me, and I want to hug and kiss you back. I need that connection in my life. Intimacy. And then I remember that you’re on the other side of the world and it hurts. So. Much.”

His turn to nod. He could have said each of these words and meant them.

“I thought about asking you to move to L.A.,” she goes on in a small, almost shameful voice. “But I can’t. You just got your first patients. You’ve worked so hard to become a psychiatrist. I know how much it means to you. I can’t ask you to set that aside for me.”

“And I can’t ask you to set aside your career for me either,” James says with a lopsided smile. “I know how much it means to you to succeed in Hollywood.”

And he knows, too, that asking her would mean losing her anyway. She told him, years ago, that her mother convinced her father to put his Hollywood dreams on hold for her, and he resented that missed opportunity all the way to their divorce. He doesn’t think the story was a warning, not back then, but he remembered it, and recently he heeded it as one.

“So it’s over,” he says, and this time it’s not a question.

Laure swallows hard, blinks a few times; still no tears, and he loves her just a bit more for that.

“It doesn’t mean you’re getting rid of me,” she assures him with a strangled laugh. “I’m still going to crash on your sofa every time I come back to London for a couple of days.” Her eyes soften with a genuine smile. “At least until you find someone. And then I’ll give her the speech.”

“The speech?” he asks, already raising an amused eyebrow.

“You know, the ‘break his heart and I’ll break your legs’ speech.”

He snorts and squeezes her fingers gently.

“And when you find the one,” she goes on, “I’ll be in the front row on your wedding day to wish you all the happiness in the world.”

“No, you’ll be standing by my side as my best friend,” he corrects.

She opens her mouth to reply, but closes it again without a word and merely nods.

“I know this is the right thing to do,” she says after a few moments, “but it still hurts more than I thought it would.”

“It is your own fault,” James says with a twisted grin. “I never wished you any sort of harm; but you wanted me to tame you…”

After a moment of confusion, she gets it, and she laughs; a real laugh, this time. God, but he will miss her laughs.

“You’re quoting The Little Prince at me now? Seriously?”

“Just thought I’d do it one last time,” he says with a half shrug.

She clucks her tongue. “Then you should have picked a better quote, because if anyone tamed the other, it’s me. Little by little. Step by step.”

He nods, his throat too tight for words. In his life, two people almost broke him; it took three of them to put him back together, and Laure certainly had a large part to play, as much as Sherlock or his therapist did. He told her things he thought he’d never tell anyone who wasn’t family or paid to listen to him. She listened. She accepted. She took him, scars and all, ‘asthma’ attacks and odd hang ups. She made him believe, truly believe, that he could love, and be loved. That he deserved to be.

Another moment passes in silence. James knows he should say something, turn the conversation to something else, something they’ll be able to have as friends, but he doesn’t know where to start. And then he figures it out.

“Now that it’s over, I can ask without sounding like a jerk,” he says, leaning forward a bit. “Those rumors on your last movie? Tom?”

Her eyes widen and she pulls back, looking hurt. “I’d never—”

“I know,” he stops her at once. “I never thought for a minute that you would. But when he looked at you in that movie, and even in the press events after that… he’s not that good of an actor. He has a thing for you, doesn’t he?”

She searches his face and he lets her. He truly never thought for a second that she’d cheat on him. But he did worry some men might try to take liberties.

“He did ask me out,” she admits, a little more prim than usual. “But when I told him I had a boyfriend he was a perfect gentleman and he let it drop.”

James thought so; the man looks like a good person - as much as these things can be judged through screens and interviews.

“You should give him a call when you go back,” he suggests.

She looks at him again, and he wonders if it’s jealousy she’s looking for. He won’t be happy to see her love life splattered in the tabloids, but he wouldn’t deny her happiness, not for the world.

“Maybe I will,” she finally says with a smile, and tightens her fingers over his one last time.


	5. 14 - Irrational

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A belated bday gift for JunkenMetel <3

“It’s so… so _stupid_!”

Leaning against a wall, James is still panting a little bit; Sherlock refrains from asking him to calm down and just focus on his breathing. He doubts the reminder would be welcome right now. He looks down the street; 221B is a few hundred meters away. He asked the driver to stop before they were home because James was tugging at his collar and complaining he couldn’t breathe. Should he wait until they get there to prod what started this, or let James talk about it now and possibly send himself into a renewed panic attack? 

He doesn’t know how he didn’t notice sooner that something was wrong. Coming out of his first session with the therapist, James seemed… well, not cheerful in any way, but at least calm. Or was it only an act for Sherlock’s benefit?

He rests a hand on James’ shoulder, squeezes gently. This is James’ first panic attack in months; the last one was when he confronted his mother. Sherlock doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to these.

“Do you want to tell me what brought this on?” he asks, trying his best to sound supportive without being pushy.

James gives him a slight frown. “Can’t you guess?”

“Was it the therapy session? We knew it might be hard to talk about some things, but—”

“No, no,” James cuts in impatiently, “ he didn’t ask anything much, just getting to know me. But didn’t you see _him_?”

It’s Sherlock’s turn to frown. He brings up the image of the therapist in his mind, a tall man in his early fifties, with graying hair and blue eyes behind square glasses. He greeted both Sherlock and James with firm handshakes and a low, measured voice.

“What about him?” he asks, puzzled.

James pushes away from the wall and stands straight, the words all but bursting out of him. “He looks just like… like Sebastian!”

It’s always the same hitch in his voice when he says that name—always the same instant urge running through Sherlock to wrap his hands around the neck of a long-dead man.

A man who looked—and sounded—nothing like the therapist.

“I’m sorry,” he says with a slight shake of head. “I’m afraid I don’t see the resemblance.”

James’ eyebrows shoot up. “But… his mouth! And his eyes when he frowns! And… and…”

He seems to deflate right in front of Sherlock, his gaze now fixed on nothing in particular. His hand rises and he starts worrying at his thumbnail with his teeth before realizing what he’s doing.

“He doesn’t look like him, does he?” he says quietly, as though to himself. “So why did I feel like he did?”

He looks up at Sherlock now, his eyes begging for an answer Sherlock doesn’t have. He tries to find one anyway.

“I don’t know. Maybe he used a word or an expression that Moran used in the past.” It happened before, after all. “Maybe your mind was already primed to think about Moran, seeing how he’s a large part of why you’re seeing a therapist.”

“Or maybe,” James says, sounding disgusted with himself, “I’m just being irrational.”

He takes a deep breath, squares up his shoulders, and with a tilt of his head indicates he’s ready to go home. They’re almost at the door when he asks in a quiet voice, “Do I have to see him again?”

“No,” Sherlock replies before he even knows he’s speaking. “Of course not. We’ll look for someone else.”

The sound that comes from James could be a sigh of relief, or it could be a thank you; Sherlock will take either of these against breathless panting any day.


	6. 14 - Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for agirlsname <3
> 
> Still taking prompts BTW (an age between 14 and 32 and one prompt word). I have a handful of them percolating, but you never know what will tickle the muse.

For once, Sherlock is sitting in the waiting room rather than the park outside. It’s been raining almost continuously for six days, and a nasty cold has been clinging to him for the past three. Sitting outside, even with an umbrella, held no appeal. John did offer to come and allow him to stay home, warm and dry, but Sherlock declined. It’d been nineteen days since John last visited the cemetery, and he grows restless if he doesn’t go at least once every three weeks. Sherlock can hardly begrudge him his visits to Mary.

He’s done replying to his emails, and now he just sits there, his eyes half closed, sorting through his mind palace. This place is so quiet, he could almost fall asleep here. Part of him wishes he could hear what’s being said in the office down the hallway, but the whole point of coming here is that there are some things he can’t or shouldn’t hear, isn’t it? It’s been almost six months now that James has been seeing Dr. Osborn. It’s hard to quantify progress, but Sherlock is seeing some.

The Knightsbridge house sold, recently, after being on the market for a while. Sherlock expected James to have second thoughts, maybe, or have one of his sleepless episodes; nothing happened. He didn’t ask to go back one last time, he didn’t mention his father, didn’t ask for music late in the night. He did call Dr. Osborn and asked for an unscheduled session. When he came out, he’d made his decision about what to do with the money, and his steps seemed… lighter, somehow.

There’s another ten minutes left to the session when the door of the office opens with its characteristic little creak. High heels come toward him, alone. Sherlock opens his eyes and tries not to look worried when Dr. Osborn appears in the waiting room doorway.

“Mr. Holmes, would you please join us for a few minutes?”

As he stands, he tries to read on her face and body language what’s going on, but all she gives him is a slightly raised eyebrow, like an acknowledgment that he’s looking for answers she won’t give him in the hallway.

He follows her back to the office, where James is seated not in front of her desk but on an armchair in the corner. There are five armchairs there, set in a loose circle, all different in shapes, colors, and apparent degrees of comfort. The one James chose looks a lot like John’s chair at home. Dr. Osborn takes the chair on his right, a big leather thing that makes her look tiny. Sherlock sits across from them, not caring much what he sits on as long as he can see James. 

James’ cheeks seem a little more pink than usual. He peeks up at Sherlock, gives him a small, wavering smile, but soon returns his eyes to his fingers, playing with a loose thread on his jeans.

“Thank you for joining us, Mr. Holmes. Something came up in our talk today and we felt like you ought to hear about it. James, do you want to tell him?”

James looks up again, his mouth starts to open, but he quickly looks to Dr. Osborn and shakes his head. She takes the reaction in stride.

“All right, do you want me to do it?”

James hesitates long enough for Sherlock to start really worrying about what all this is about. When he finally gives a tiny nod, his cheeks are yet a little more pink; is he blushing? Why on Earth would he be blushing?

Dr. Osborn clears her throat, drawing Sherlock’s attention to her.

“We were talking,” she starts in a calm, measured voice, “about the incident during which James threatened to shoot himself.”

It’s been quite a while since Sherlock was sucker-punched. He’d almost forgotten what it felt like. He manages not to gasp, but needs a second to realize Dr. Osborn is waiting for him to reply. He gives her a small nod, hoping that’ll be enough for her to go on.

“As James recalls it,” she continues, now glancing briefly at the notepad in her hands, “you talked him down by telling him, I quote, ‘you are loved.’ Is that your recollection as well?”

Sherlock said a lot more than that, on that awful day. He remembers each and every word, remembers James’ tears, his trembling hands, and the way the gun gleamed. He remembers how scared he was. How scared they all were. His insides twist and his throat tightens. He struggles to speak audibly.

“Yes.”

She nods, looks at James, then at her notes again before going on.

“From what James recalls, that’s the closest you’ve ever been to actually saying you love him. As I understand it, your family dynamics are… complicated. You’re not my client, and I wouldn’t presume to ask whether your parents ever told you they loved you, but I’d like you to consider how hearing or not hearing those words made you feel, how they’ve influenced you in your relationships, maybe to this day. And I’m certainly not asking you to tell James now that you love him. It would defeat the entire purpose of—”

Sherlock’s discomfort has been growing with each word, old pain resurfacing until he feels all of five years old again, sneaking into Mycroft’s room to ask under cover of the night, _do you think Mummy loves us?_. He doesn’t need to ask himself if it’s true he never said those words to James. He didn’t mean _not_ to say them, didn’t mean to follow his parents’ example, but it certainly looks like he did. And he hurt James, the same way he was hurt.

“I do,” he blurts out before he can talk himself out of it, interrupting Dr. Osborn and causing James to practically jump in his seat. “I mean… I thought you knew. I thought showing you was enough. But I do. Love you, that is.”

His voice breaks a little on the last words and he shuts his mouth. His face feels like it’s burning, and he suddenly understands James’ blush. He wishes they were home, alone, in their darkened living room maybe, where he wouldn’t feel so exposed. Where it’s always so much easier to talk to James. But would it have occurred to him to say these simple words if Dr. Osborn hadn’t been there to point out he’d never said them?

“I know you do,” James whispers, not quite meeting his eyes. “I just… it’s nice to hear it. To know for sure. Father never said… and I think he did, too, but he never said it and he never will. And I was too scared of how he’d react to ever tell him. But you… I can tell you.”

Except that he doesn’t actually say it, not until Dr. Osborn leans toward him and quietly says, “James? Try.”

They’re silly words, in the end, aren’t they? Most people say them too easily, too casually, too many times. They say them, sometimes, to get something, whether it’s attention, affection, or the same words in return. They say them so they won’t feel lonely, so they can lay claim to someone else.

But when James says these words, it doesn’t sound like that. It sounds like a son telling his dad it’s okay if he messes up sometimes, if he forgets to say things, if he assumes James knows. 

It sounds like love, and that’s more than enough.


	7. 17 - Drugs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set before 'Victory'
> 
> for bagofthumbs <3

James feels good.

He feels better than good.

He can’t remember the last time his heart felt this light, his chest so wide it could contain the whole world, and the stars to boot.

He can see some stars above him; odd, usually the city lights drown them out. He tries to point them out to Laure, but somehow he forgets what he was going to say when he looks at her face again. All he can think of is kissing her, smelling her, touching her, tasting her. She shines so much brighter than the stars. She burns so much hotter, too, her hand tight where it clenches at his side, guiding him forward. With his arm over her shoulder, it’s easy to turn toward her, to draw her closer, until their bodies are pressed against each other, all her softness molded against all of his hardness. He’s never been this hard before.

The stars fly right out of his mind as he nuzzles her neck, inhaling her scent.

“You feel good,” he mumbles against her skin, flicking his tongue there. “Let me make you feel even better.”

She mutters a curse and steps back from him, leaving him strangely wavering on his feet. Her hair looks windswept—but no, that was him, not the wind, his fingers in her hair, playing like on the strings of a violin. She made the sweetest music. That was before she pulled away from him the first time. She wanted him then, he could tell, her breathing fast, her eyes dark, her nipples tight against her blouse when he caressed her. But now… now she just looks pissed. And it makes him so sad. Doesn’t she know he’d give her the world and everything in it?

He tries reaching for her again, but her hand captures his own and squeezes tight; too tight.

“Not like that,” she says darkly, but her voice wavers a bit and he thinks he could convince her again. “Come on, I can see your door from here. Let’s go. Are your dads home?”

The mention of his dads sends a cold shiver down his back, though he couldn’t say why. He lets her guide him forward; maybe when they’re in his room she won’t fight anymore.

“Case,” he says, a little breathless. “Out of town until Monday. You should sleep over.”

The words fall easily from his lips, and just as easily images rise in his mind of all the things he and Laure could do until Monday. All the things she’d been wanting to do for a while, now. She’s hinted at it more than once, though she never pushed. But tonight… tonight every time he makes an overture, she pulls back.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she says, her voice tight with anger. Lower, she adds, “God, when I find out who did this I’m going to rip their balls off.”

“Did what?” James asks, leaning over to smell her hair again.

He’s wrapped an arm at her waist and somehow his fingers have found a way under her blouse and to her skin. She’s so soft… He wants to rub all of him against all of her. But she bats his hand away again.

“Did this!” she snaps. “Fuck, I’ve been waiting for so long and now…”

He doesn’t understand what she’s been waiting for, or what has changed now. He tries to ask when she takes his keys and opens the door, but she shushes him and whispers for him to be quiet. They’re halfway up to his room before he understands - of course, they don’t need Mrs. Hudson to come see what they’re up to. Not when they’re finally in his room, not when he’s wrapping himself around Laure again, covering her mouth with his, kissing her with all the wants and needs he’s been keeping at bay for so long and…

And at last she kisses back! At last, she doesn’t pull back, doesn’t turn her face away, doesn’t stop him—

Except she soon does just that, panting and cursing in French under her breath. God, that’s so sexy, he thinks. And apparently says aloud, because she blinks and shakes her head.

“James?” she says very softly. “Do you realize… do you understand you’re not yourself right now?”

He frowns at her, tries to get close to her again but she won’t let him.

“How am I not myself?” he asks, a plea creeping up in his voice. “I’m me and you’re you and I want you and I know you want me so why won’t you let me—”

“Because this isn’t you,” she says again, and she sounds so sad he wants to hold her tight until she’s happy again. “James, someone slipped you something. Or maybe they tried to drug someone else, but the glasses got mixed up or something, I don’t know why anyone would try to drug you, but—”

“No mix up,” he interrupts her, hoping it’ll take away her sadness to know none of this was an accident or a mistake. “It was in my drink. I made sure I drank it all so you wouldn’t take a sip. See? It is me.”

Her eyes grow wide, as wide as the sky, and her mouth falls open. He wants to kiss her again. When she sits a little abruptly on the edge of his bed, he sits next to her, rests a hand on her thigh, wrap his other arm around her to keep her close. She’s so, so warm… he doesn’t think he could ever stop touching her.

“James?” she says his name so softly, it’s like a caress. “Are you saying… Are you saying you took drugs?”

He clucks his tongue, then flicks it against her arm, right where her short sleeve ends and exposes silky skin.

“It’s not _drugs_ ,” he tries to explain. “It’s just to help me relax. So I can give you what you want. Because I do know what you want, you know.”

His fingers stroke a little higher on her thigh, as though to demonstrate, but she grabs his hand in both of hers and stops him.

“But _you_ don’t want… You never want to. Not when you’re in your right mind.”

“I do. It’s just… difficult. Because…”

He frowns and pulls back a little. He felt so warm until now, but cold is creeping from the base of his skull and down his spine.

“Because what?” Laure asks, barely louder than a whisper.

Her eyes are so wide, so full of stars… It’s the same stars he could see out there in the street. If he wanted to, he could count them. And he sort of wants to. Better that than to answer her question. It’s hard enough talking about it to Doctor June.

“She said I had to try to relax,” he tries to explain. “She said there was no rush, but that if I wanted to do it I’d have to relax so I wouldn’t think… so I wouldn’t think about…”

But the cold returns, and clears his head a little more. Trying not to think about something—or someone—is the same as thinking about them. Sebastian has no place in this room, no right to stand between James and Laure. But he is there, nonetheless, creeping back now that James’ mind is beginning to clear a little.

“Who said you have to relax?” Laure presses on, angling her body toward James and looking at him intently. “And not think about what?”

She’s taken his hand now that he’s not trying to touch her anymore, and he watches their fingers entwine together. He wanted their bodies to do the same. Wanted to feel her, all around him. Wanted to be inside her. And it could still happen, if he just kisses her, he knows he can get that feeling back, can fly again and draw her up to fly with him.

A little frantic, a little desperate, he leans back in again and reclaims her mouth. Kissing her used to be hard, too, but she showed him how lovely it can be. She can show him how all the rest can be lovely too, can’t she? Won’t she?

He must have said all this aloud, mumbled it against her unresponsive lips, because she cups his cheek in her hand and murmurs, “I’d love to. But not like this. Not when you had to drug yourself to get into it. It’d be no better than if I’d drugged you to have my way with you.”

“You’d never!” he protests, the very idea that she, of all people, would force herself on him absolutely abominable. “And I want it. I want you. I just needed a little push.”

A tiny little push. A quarter of the tiny pill that was oh, so easy to buy from one of his classmates’ older brother. So small that the effects are dissipating faster and faster.

“Would you sleep with me if I had that stuff in my system?” she asks, very solemn.

“Of course not.” The answer comes automatically, as does the bile at the back of James’ throat. “It’d be…”

He’s never liked the word now resting like a dead thing on his tongue. It’s too small for the act it represents. Too innocuous for the pain it brings. Doctor June reminds him to use it, now and then. Not always. She usually can see tell when to push him and when to let it drop. But she uses it, sometimes. She used it just last week, when he was telling her about Laure, about the party tonight, about what he thought Laure would like them to do after the party, about his fear that he’d have a panic attack if he tried, about his shame that he’s not as eager to have sex as so many of his peers are.

“Your experience of sex revolves around rape,” she said then in that quiet, soft voice she always uses when she says that word. “It’s natural to feel anxious. It’ll get easier as time passes for you to relax and focus on the present rather than the past. Focus on who’s with you rather than who isn’t. And from what you’ve told me of Laure, she’ll wait for you to be ready. There’s no rush. You’re both very young still.”

“I’m gonna be sick,” he gasps, and bolts out of the room and down the stairs.

He’s flushed the toilet twice and is still sitting on the floor when Laure pushes the door open and looks down at him with soft eyes. Ashamed, he looks at her feet.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out before she can say a word. “I was stupid.”

“You had a very stupid idea,” she says gently. “It doesn’t make you stupid. How are you feeling?”

“More like myself.” He makes himself meet her eyes. “Thanks for getting me home. And… for everything.”

She nods once, a sad little smile curling one corner of her mouth.

“I wish I knew…” She stops, considers him, then shrugs a little. “If you want to talk about it, you know I’m there. And I’ll be there when you’re ready, too. Just as long as you’re there too, and not just a shell of yourself. All right?”

He can’t do nothing more than nod.

“I called a cab, I should go down now. Do you want to do something tomorrow? Just the two of us, no big party or anything?”

He nods again, his throat tight.

“All right, I’ll call you around lunch time. You get some sleep until then, all right?”

One last nod, and she comes forward, bends to kiss his forehead, her fingers sweeping through his hair.

“I love you,” she whispers. “And I’ll wait as long as needed. But if you ever try something like this again, we’re through. I’m not worth you messing with your brain.”

She leaves before he can think of a reply. He counts her steps in the staircase, listens for the door swinging shut. When he’s alone, he lets the tears come. When they’ve dried, he draws his phone from his pocket and hesitates for a moment, scrolling between Doctor June’s number and Sherlock’s, finally settling on the latter.

_I did something stupid tonight. JH_

The answer doesn’t take long to come.

_Are you safe? SH_

Only after James has replied with a yes does Sherlock add, _We all do stupid things sometimes. Do you need us to come home early?_

_No, it’s all right_

_Do you want to talk about it?_

And James did, when he first texted, but now he doesn’t need to anymore. 

_Not really. I just wanted to admit I made a mistake. Better now._

The next answer takes a little longer to come in. 

_We can be home in three hours. Just say the word._

_I know. Thanks Dad. I’ll go to bed now. Good night. Love you._

_Good night. We love you too. Even when you do something stupid. Just as long as you stay safe._

James is smiling when he shuts the phone and stand. He smiles even more widely a little later when, after cleaning up, he gets a message from Laure. 

_I probably shouldn’t say this, all things considered, but I can’t wait to have your hands on me again. And next time I won’t push them away. Sweet dreams. XO_

He does have very nice dreams that night; dreams that make him think that ‘next time’ might not take too long to come after all.


	8. 16 - Angela

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you gwad for the prompt.
> 
> I wish I could write these more often, but the new job (well, new... it's been 3 months now...) is sucking the life right out of me.
> 
> Happy Holidays

“Are you sure it’s okay?”

Sherlock looks up from the email he was composing on his phone. James has asked the question, in one form or another, seven times in the past three days, but it’s the first time he’s so direct about it. The first time he asks when John isn’t present, too. Standing in front of Sherlock’s chair, his face illuminated by the flickering lights strung over the fireplace mantle, he looks more worried than he’s been in months, if not years, about what Sherlock will reply. He’s fiddling with the leather bracelet on his wrist, a recent habit but one Sherlock has come to associate with James being nervous.

Which is why Sherlock is very, very careful with the way he answers, both in his words and tone.

“We have always said it was your choice when to see her, or whether to see her at all. That hasn’t changed. If anything, the way you’ve asserted boundaries with her for the past year and half tells me John and I were right to leave that decision to you.”

He’s including John in his statement, although he knows that John, were he here right now rather than visiting his sister at the recovery center, would consider him with tight lips and disapproving eyes. He wouldn’t tell James outright not to go see Angela, but he wouldn’t give his blessing either. John hasn’t forgiven Angela for her bigoted accusations. 

Neither has Sherlock, to tell the truth, but this isn’t about him. It’s about the young man in front of him, about him moving forward. Sherlock talked to Doctor Osborn about this when James started hinting he was thinking about reconnecting with Angela. She advised him to continue trusting James and his instincts - to ‘empower him’ were her actual words.

James, however, looks more uncertain than empowered. Sherlock swallows back a sigh and gestures at John’s chair behind James.

“Sit for a minute, would you?”

After a brief hesitation, James does sit, right on the edge of the chair. His eyes are a little too wide, his skin a little too pale… what does he expect Sherlock to say right now? Certainly not this:

“Are _you_ sure it’s okay? Are you sure that’s what you want? Or are you just doing it because you think that’s what you have to do? Because I feel like I need to tell you again. You don’t owe her anything just because you share DNA. Not your time, not your affection, not even a second thought if that’s what you decide is best for you.”

James leans back and considers Sherlock for a long moment before he speaks - and when he does, he’s not answering Sherlock’s question. Or is he?

“Do you miss your mother?”

It takes a few seconds for the words to make sense. And a few seconds more for Sherlock to formulate an answer that goes beyond ‘no.’ 

“We were never close. I went years without seeing her, or talking to her.”

It’s only been three weeks since the funeral. Sherlock had already agreed they’d spend Christmas with her before she passed on in her sleep.

“But you loved her.”

It’s not a question, for which Sherlock is grateful.

“We were talking about your mother, not mine,” he reminds James gently.

James nods absently. The bracelet turns on his wrist under his restless fingers. 

“The last time I saw Grand-mere, she said… she thought I was you. She called me Sherlock, I mean. She said she was sorry for not believing you.”

Had James hit Sherlock, it might have felt a little like this. He’s not sure which, of the surprise or confusion, is worse. Not sure either why his eyes prickle a little, or why his chest feels so tight. He manages to push words out anyway.

“I still don’t see what that has to do with you meeting Angela for Christmas lunch.”

James nods again.

“Angela apologized. I think she’s sincere. Or at least, from reading her letters I think she’s sincere. I won’t know for sure until I talk to her in person. And I need to know for sure. I need to know if I should keep writing to her or just cut things off with her. The longer I’m in contact with her, the harder it’ll be to end it if it turns out she can’t change.”

A wave of sheer relief washes over Sherlock. He’s been wondering why James wants this - wondering whether society’s norms about loving one’s blood family was skewing his view of the whole Angela situation. To hear that, on the contrary, James is trying to safeguard himself fills him with a quiet contentment.

“I still say it’s up to you,” Sherlock says quietly. “But you keep asking, so here it is. It’s not just okay for you to see her. It’s fine. If it helps you figure things out, it’s more than fine. And whatever you decide to do next will also be fine, all right?”

When James says “All right, thanks,” it sounds like the topic is finally closed — like he won’t ask again if it’s okay.

He stands and starts to leave the room. A word rises to Sherlock’s lips, unbidden but too powerful to silence.

“Thanks.”

When James turns a questioning look back at him, he turns his eyes back to his phone, but he does explain himself.

“For telling me what my mother said.”

It’s close to thirty years too late, but as the saying goes, better late than never…

“Welcome,” James replies softly. “Good night, Dad.”

And as he walks away, Sherlock can only be awed, yet again, at how much he would have missed had he not welcomed this child into his life. He doesn’t think of Moriarty very often, these days, not unless James brings up the topic first, but right now, he does think of the man, and offers a silent word of thanks that, eighteen years ago, give or take a few months, Moriarty chose Angela. 

Jim will never have the chance to fix all the mistakes he made with James, but with any luck tomorrow Angela won’t hurt Sherlock’s son any more than she already has.


	9. 14 - June

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tried replying to feedback, but I'm so far behind i fear I may never catch up. Please know every comment is treasured.  
> <3

James sits a little deeper into the armchair. It’s really comfortable, and he feels irrationally resentful about that. It’s like the furniture itself is trying to trick him into being at ease. It’ll take a lot more that that.

“What did my dad tell you?” he asks, maybe a little too sharply to be polite.

Doctor Osborn doesn’t seem to mind his tone. She smiles at him, her eyes kind, her posture relaxed.

“Mostly, he told me that I will be your third therapist in just a few months. Can you tell me why?”

And here they go. Her first question to him. He has a feeling she’s going to ask many more... if he sees her again after today.

He looks around the room, taking in small details and trying to get a feel for her. The office feels perfectly welcoming, like the armchair, but there isn’t much of her on display. The other therapists had pictures on the walls of their families, drawings from their children or patients. Doctor Osborn only has a painting of a lake with a stone house near it. He wonders if it’s a real place.

“The last one talked to me like I was a little kid,” he finally answers her question, looking back at her and finding that she doesn’t appear to have minded the wait. “It drove me crazy.”

“I will try to remember that,” she says with a trace of humor in her voice. She doesn’t write on the notebook open on her knee. “What about the first one?”

James swallows around the lump of shame suddenly lodged in his throat. 

“He... He reminded me of someone I used to know.”

“Someone you didn’t care for?”

Care for... The expression brings a bitter smile to James’ lips. She’s not wrong, but she also couldn’t be further from the truth.

“Someone who is in great part the reason why I need a therapist at all,” he replies a little dryly.

She makes a note on the otherwise blank page. James tried to read what looks like a single word, but he can’t make it out.

“Yes,” she says, apparently unconcerned by the way he’s peeking at her notes. “I can see how such a resemblance might be difficult.”

James could let the topic go. It’d be easy to. He even wants to. But he promised Sherlock and John he’d give this a serious try. And he promised himself the same thing.

“The thing is...” He swallows a sigh. “He didn’t look anything like Sebastian. When I talked to Sherlock about it, he said he couldn’t see the resemblance, and looking back on it, he was right. I don’t know why I thought otherwise.”

And it still burns the back of his throat like acid anyway.

“Maybe something he said,” Doctor Osborn offers while writing something down, “a specific word, or even a gesture triggered your memory.”

“Maybe.”

“Had it happened before? You seeing this person in someone else?”

Memories flash though James’ mind and he clenches his hands on his lap. Doctor Osborn’s eyes flicker toward them before returning to his face. She knows his answer before he speaks, he’d bet anything on it. 

“A couple of times, yes,” he admits, like it’s a shameful secret.

“Can you tell me about it?”

He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to be here. The back of his shirt is beginning to stick to his skin. Damn it, he hates that the mere thought of talking about something simply related to Sebastian can do this to him.

But he supposes if he doesn’t try to exorcise it, it’ll never get better.

“There isn’t much to tell.” The words hurt his throat like gravel hurtled at him. “I mean, when it happens I usually have a panic attack.”

Her single blink somehow seems to mean as much as a gasp from someone else might have.

“That’s not much for you?” she asks, her voice just a little lower, like she’s carefully controlling it.

James shrugs. “I got used to it, I guess. John taught me how to calm myself down.”

When she writes something down, this time, he can guess the shape of the name.

“And John is..?”

The topic is easier, much easier. James relaxes a bit.

“Sherlock’s boyfriend. Well, partner they call it. He’s a doctor. And he’s sort of my other dad I guess.”

He’s observing her even more closely as he replies, searching for the telltale signs of discomfort at the mention of a gay relationship. That’s one of his red flags. He sees nothing, however. Nothing more than an arched eyebrow with the question, “You guess? Is he or is he not in your mind?”

“He is,” James says somewhat defensively. “I just... I’m not sure what to call him. I call Sherlock Dad usually. And Father is...”

His throat tightens suddenly. He hadn’t meant to touch that topic, although he supposes it’d have come up eventually.

“Yes?” Doctor Osborn prods when he doesn’t go on.

“Sherlock told you he adopted me?” he asks, and wishes yet again he’d been there for that first meeting. Sherlock wouldn’t say anything about it except that Doctor Osborn seemed ‘not unintelligent and somewhat perceptive.’

“Yes,” is all she says, and James can’t guess if she knows anything more that that.

“Father was my biological dad. He died. It’s been four years. It'll be five in a few days.”

Those are facts. Simple and true. She’s making note of them. But they’re so far from giving an accurate picture of his father that James feels like he’s lying.

“Do you want to tell me about him?”

James has to fight back the urge to simply say ‘no’.

“Tell you what?” he asks instead, shifting restlessly in this armchair that would like nothing better than to cradle him.

“Anything you care to share,” she replies, and her voice is again perfectly neutral. It irks James for some reason, and he wants to shock her, to get a reaction out of her that is more than a raised eyebrow or a scribble in her notes.

“He was a psychopath,” he says with as much carelessness as he can manage. “He killed himself. And when he did he put me in the care of another psychopath. Someone who was even worse than him.”

Her eyes search him for a moment, and he wonders if she’s looking for signs he’s lying. He returns her look without blinking, but flinches when she asks, “And that someone was... Sebastian?”

He nods, because it’d be mortifying to reply and hear his voice waver now, after he made such a show of not caring about what he was saying.

Long seconds pass. She makes a couple more short notes but says nothing when she returns her gaze to James. He meets it at first, but soon has to look away. The painting behind her desk attracts his attention again. It looks really peaceful; he’d love to swim in that lake.

“You’re not saying anything,” he says, looking back at her when he trusts his voice and eyes not to betray him.

“Mostly I’m here to listen, you know,” she replies softly. “What do you think I should say right now?”

He shrugs again. “I don’t know. Don’t you want to know why I call them psychopaths?”

“I suppose you have good reasons. And I also think you’ll tell me when you’re ready. The last thing I want right now is for you to have a panic attack on your way home because I pushed you further than you were ready or willing to go.”

Her choice of words gives him pause. Laure said something very similar to him, not very long ago--minus the mention of a panic attack.

“That’s... good to know,” he says. “Thank you.”

She shakes her head once. “You don’t have to thank me for that, James. I’m here for you. I’m on your side. The sooner you understand that, the more progress we can accomplish.”

Part of him does understand that. He gets what seeing a therapist is about; he wouldn’t have asked for this otherwise. But as much as he craves this ‘progress’ she mentions so casually, he also knows it’s not that easy.

“I see you’re thinking,” she says after a few seconds. “Do you have any question for me?”

The words come out before he even knows he’s speaking; he’d meant to ask this at some point and it’s the best opening he’s had. 

“Does that mean you won’t tell my dad what I say?”

She taps her pencil twice on her notebook in what looks like an absentminded gesture. He wishes he knew her well enough already to know what it means.

“I will only tell him what you said in two cases,” she says, no trace of apology in her voice. “If I think you’re in danger, or if you ask me to.”

He considers her answer carefully, then nods.

“That’s also good to know,” he offers, because she seems to be waiting for a reply.

When she glances at the clock on the wall, he follows her gaze--and is shocked to realize how much time has passed already. He feels like he only just sat down.

“We’ve got a bit of time left for today,” she says. “Is there anything else you’d like me to know? Anyone else you might mention later and you could at least introduce to me now?”

Peeking at her notebook again, James can see she hasn’t written much. A handful of paragraphs are set widely apart on the paper, none of them longer than a few words. He’s guessing the first word of each paragraph is a name he’s mentioned so far. Sherlock, Sebastian, John, Father.

“I don’t know.” he says, stopping himself from shrugging yet again. “My mother, I suppose. Her name is Angela. She thought I was dead for most of my life. I don’t talk to her at the moment.”

A new paragraph; James is sure the pencil traces the name Angela.

“Do you want to tell me why you don’t talk to her?”

Again, James has to swallow back a curt ‘no.’

“I will,” he says instead. “Just not today.”

“That’s fine. Anyone else?”

James runs through a mental list of the important people in his life. It’s not that many of them. She won’t need a second page.

“There’s Sherlock’s brother. Mycroft. At first I was calling him Uncle Mycroft to annoy him, but he really feels like my uncle now. And their mother... She feels like a grandma. Or at least what I think a grandparent should feel like.”

Two more paragraphs, both very brief.

“You didn’t know your biological grandparents?”

“I met my father’s father. We... did not get along.”

And that is the understatement of the century. Doctor Osborn seems to sense it, because she gives him a long look before saying almost too casually, “Okay. We can talk about him another time maybe.”

“Maybe,” James echoes, but thinks to himself it’ll be a long time before he trusts her enough to open that particular can of worms.

“Anyone else?”

James hesitates. He wants to say no again, and again he doesn’t. Damn him and his promises...

“There’s... Laure.” He’s almost stupidly proud he doesn’t stutter when he says her name. “We go to school together. She was my first friend.”

Doctor Osborn smiles. “Just friend? And before you reply, let me say I’m only asking because you’re blushing.”

At her words, his cheeks warm up enough for him to feel it. “She’s my girlfriend, too,” he admits, and it feels like he’s confessing every smile, every whisper, every innocent touch, every kiss they’ve ever shared.

“It’s nice to know that you can smile,” Doctor Osborn says with a smile of her own, briefly leaning toward him.

James tries not to hear the echo of his grandfather saying those same words.

“She does make me smile a lot.”

“That’s good. Do you confide in her?”

“She knows some things. Like, she knows Sherlock adopted me. And she knows I have panic attacks sometimes. We told her it’s asthma but she’s not stupid, I’m sure she knows. But I wouldn’t tell her about Father. Or Sebastian.”

The implication is that he will tell Doctor Osborn about them. And he probably will, he now realizes. So far, she’s passing his test, although he couldn’t explain exactly why or how.

“What about Sherlock?” she asks. “Would you tell him about them?”

“I have told him about them. A lot.”

Too much, James sometimes thinks, but he also knows every word was needed when it passed his lips.

“If you’re here, does it mean his response hasn’t helped?”

She’s just asking a question, a logical one at that, so why does it feel like she’s attacking Sherlock?

“It did,” James says with enough force that he hopes she’ll see he means it. “He’s helped me a lot. But I think maybe...”

She gives him a few seconds before saying, “Yes?”

He’s tried explaining this to Sherlock when he told him why he changed his mind about seeing a therapist, but he’s not sure he was clear enough. He tries to do better this time.

“Maybe we’ve grown too close for him to help me as much as he did in the beginning. What he said then helped, but sometimes it hurt too. Now he’s always afraid to hurt me, even if it’s something I need to hear.”

Or maybe, he was always afraid to hurt James, but now he’s a lot better at figuring out what will or won’t.

“All right,” Doctor Osborn says. She turns the page of her notebook and sets her pencil tip on the new page, ready to write. “Before I let you go, let me ask you this. What do you hope will happen if we meet regularly?”

This question is easy enough to answer.

“I’d like to stop having panic attacks.” After a brief hesitation, he adds, more quietly, “And bad dreams, too.”

He can see she wants to ask about those, but she merely nods and writes something down.

“I can’t make any promises, but we’ll work on that. Anything else?”

When he shakes his head, she says, “That’s a good start for now, we can revisit your goals later on. We’re about done for today so I’m going to give you some homework for next time, assuming you decide to come back. For each person you named today, I want you to think of two facts you want to share with me. Things you haven’t already told me. Got it?”

“I guess,” James replies somewhat dubiously, already anxious about what to tell her about Sebastian.

She smiles as she stands, but her voice is firmer suddenly. “No guesses, James. Just facts. All right?”

She’s holding her hand out to him; when he stands and shakes it, it feels like signing a contract.

“All right.”

“I look forward to working with you. Please tell your dad there’s no need for him to get in. I’ll see you in two weeks?”

He considers her for a few seconds before making his decision. “Yes, I think you will.”


	10. 14 - The List

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follows chapter 9

_Laure  
She’s French. Her father is a famous French actor and she wants to go into acting too. She lives in London with her mother and her stepfather. She doesn’t like him very much but he doesn’t seem to be home a lot._

James lifts his pencil from the paper and reads over what he just wrote. Two facts, Doctor Osborn asked. So far, he’s ahead of the curve. It’s easy to find things to say about Laure, which might be why he started with her. Then again, he realizes this might not be the kind of facts Doctor Osborn expects. It’s all very general. Maybe he’ll come back to it later. For now, he goes on to the next person he can think of.

_Grand-mere  
She knows who my real father is but she never made me feel like she was thinking of him when she talked to me. She had me call her Grand-mere the first time we met. She lives in Sussex and she wishes we’d visit more often. I’d like that too, but Sherlock doesn’t like going there._

He hesitates for a second. He’s written more than enough about her already, and yet...

_No one talks about it but she’s ill. She forgets things a lot and at times she seems very weak. I’m afraid she’s dying._

He stares at that last word for a few seconds. He knows everybody must die some day; he learned that fact at a very young age. But with her, it feels like he’s seeing it happen in slow motion, and it hurts. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he moves on.

_Mycroft  
He has an important job in the government. He acts very cold, like he doesn’t care about anyone, but when you know him it’s easy to see how much he cares about his family. He used to be afraid I’d turn out like my father, but I don’t think he worries about that anymore._

Or if he does, he’s extraordinarily good at hiding it. The last time James saw him was at a riding competition a couple of weeks ago. Some minister was there with her family, and Mycroft introduced James to her. The pride in his voice when he said ‘my nephew’ was unmistakable.

It’s with a little smile that James writes the next name.

_John  
He used to be married, but his wife died in a car accident and he came to live with Sherlock and me during his recovery. I think he always loved Sherlock so it was nice when he and Sherlock got together. They make each other happy. He was a soldier and a doctor but now he and Sherlock work their detective cases together. Also he’s writing a book about all that they’ve done together._

Reading this paragraph over, James quickly realizes he used the word ‘together’ three times in as many lines. He turns the pencil over, poised to erase and rephrase, but eventually leaves it all as is. Together is a good word, isn’t it?

_Sherlock_

Again, James hesitates. There’s so much he could say about Sherlock... where should he start? He considers the name for a long time before starting at the beginning.

_He saved my life._

In more ways than James cares to explain right now, although he suspects he will have to talk about it all eventually.

_He’s always afraid to be a terrible father, but he’s the best parent I could have hoped for._

For the first time, he stops at two facts. These are the most important things he can think of about Sherlock. Also, writing the word ‘parent’ has reminded him that there are more people yet he needs to write about. He doesn’t look forward to it, but he has to do it, and he has to do it now. He’s been putting off working on this ‘homework’ for two weeks. He’ll be seeing Doctor Osborn this afternoon. He needs to finish this now. Clenching his teeth, he writes the next name.

_Angela  
I met her for the first time a year and half ago. My father faked his death and mine when I was a few months old. She was still visiting our graves. She had a lot of trouble accepting he wasn’t the good person she thought he was, even when she knew he’d basically kidnapped me and taken me from her._

He has to stop for a moment to let the wave of anger roil through him. If only she’d believed him instead of trying to convince him he was wrong. If only she’d accepted Sherlock and John for who they were. If only... 

He sighs and shakes his head. Someday, maybe, he can have a mother again. But right now, she’s just Angela. His pencil digs a little deeper into the paper as he adds, _She’s homophobic and has accused Sherlock and John of molesting me._

As soon as he’s done writing, he flips the pencil over and erases everything after homophobic.

With Angela’s facts on paper, it’s time to turn to his father’s. He writes his name slowly, giving himself another few seconds to think, but this, this and the last entry, are why James has put this off for so long. What can he say about his father that he hasn’t already told Doctor Osborn? He gave her few facts, sure, but they were the most important ones... weren’t they? He has to blink several times to clear his vision and see what he writes.

_Jim  
He hit me with his belt and his hand. He taught me to play the piano. He taught me to speak French and German. He taught me to ride a horse. He taught me to shoot a gun. He killed one of my nannies in front of me because she’d hit me. He killed another one because she confronted him about hitting me. He wanted me to be just like him but I wasn’t. I think in the end he knew it. Sometimes I wonder if that’s one reason why he killed_

He doesn’t even finish writing out that thought before erasing the full sentence, and the previous one for good measure. He rereads what he wrote, and a shiver runs down his back, like he’s standing on top of a roof somewhere.

More than anything in the world, he’d like to stop there. Surely, all of this is enough to raise questions that will fill the entire appointment.

But then, he did tell her he needs therapy in great part because of Sebastian. If he doesn’t say anything about him, she’s bound to notice. And then she’ll ask questions, and James will have to answer on the spot, without having time to think. Better if he thinks about what to say now.

 _Sebastian_ , he writes, and the word comes out a little crooked on the line.

_He ra_

He erases what he wrote and starts again.

_He branded me with_

Those words, too, soon disappear.

_Sherlock killed_

No, he can’t tell her that.

Taking a deep breath, he closes his eyes and fights back the wave of nausea trying to take him over. Blindly, he puts the pencil down on the table and picks up the piece of paper. He crumples it in his hands. This is useless. Random platitudes. How is it going to help anything for Doctor Osborn to know that Laure wants to be an actress, John used to be married or Jim taught him French?

“Hey, James? Are you all right?”

He blinks repeatedly until John’s image solidifies in front of him. He seems worried. James wonders what he looks like right now for John to be worried.

“I’m fine,” he croaks.

He remembers when Sherlock used to say that while he was anything but fine, and flinches at his own words.

“What’s that, then?” John asks, gesturing at the crumpled paper in his hands.

James looks at it, then back at John. Should he tell him? Or should he just say that he doesn’t want to talk to Doctor Osborn ever again? John might be harder to convince than Sherlock, but if James just says...

Says what? That he doesn’t want to talk about Sebastian? Didn’t he basically say the opposite when he asked to see a therapist?

“Doctor Osborn... She wanted me to tell her about the people in my life.”

John nods, and for a second he looks like he’s about to reach for the paper. He doesn’t, though, and instead says quietly, “Moran?”

James doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry, whether to confirm or deny. 

“You don’t have to tell her everything on the first or second meeting,” John goes on quietly. “Or even on the tenth. Talking to her is supposed to help you, not hurt you more. All right?”

“All right,” James repeats blankly. “But I still don’t know what to say about him.”

“Could you say something that doesn’t relate to you? Would that help?”

James frowns at the paper in his hand, then slowly opens it up and smoothes it out on the table. “Maybe,” he says, a little dubious, and picks up the pencil again.

_He used to kill people on my father’s orders. They were lovers._

There. That’s two facts. They in no way explain why Sebastian features in so many of James’ nightmares, but he supposes that’s a start. He looks up at John, almost expecting him to be reading over his shoulder, but John is looking at him with the tiniest of worried frowns.

“Are you all right?” he asks yet again.

This time, James manages a tiny smile. “Yeah, I’m okay.”


	11. 24 - Drunk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For itsbine on tumblr
> 
> Set after Over

The new couch is a vast improvement over the old one. Never mind the firm yet comfortable cushions, it's the fact that Sherlock can settle at one end, John at the other, with their legs entwined, each with a book, phone or laptop, that makes all the difference.

They're in such a position tonight, John reading a novel while Sherlock browses through emails, when steps echo in the stairwell. Stumbling, uneven steps - enough so that John looks up and throws Sherlock a questioning frown.

"Drunk client," Sherlock assesses, sotto voce, but that can't be right. Even with her hip, Mrs. Hudson still opens their door when the doorbell rings downstairs; she's long since given up on having a doorbell ring upstairs. She wouldn't have sent a client up with no warning, especially if they were impaired, and especially at this time of the evening. "No, not client," he corrects himself immediately.

Not a client, but someone who opened the door on their own. Which means they have a key. Which means...

Just as Sherlock reaches the logical conclusion, James appears on the threshold. John turns around to look at him, and the small jump he gives makes it clear he, too, is startled by their son's appearance. His coat is buttoned, but askew. He has only one glove on, his keys still in his hand. His eyes are red, clearly bloodshot even from across the room. And as he stands there, looking at them, he's very obviously unsteady.

"Hi," he mumbles. "'S it okay if I sleep here t'night?"

"Of course," Sherlock says, at the same time as John asks, "Tell me you didn't drive here."

James shakes his head. "Cab. 'M just gonna..."

He gestures vaguely upstairs, and when they don't reply, makes his way up to his old room.

John turns back to Sherlock, very slowly, his eyebrows all the way up his forehead.

"Do you think we should..."

"In the morning," Sherlock says. "I doubt we'd get coherent answers right now."

John nods, but there's no mistaking the worry in his eyes. Sherlock feels the same way. James has been out of the flat and in his own place for almost two years. He's slept in his old room a handful of times, and while he never explained why, the old dullness was always back in his eyes on those nights. It's the first time however that he shows up impaired in any way.

After another couple of minutes, Sherlock stands. John moves at the same time, with the same obvious intent.

"I'll get the water," John says. "Grab some aspirin?"

They go up with two full glasses of water and said aspirin. The door is still ajar, and through it they can see James lying across his bed, still in his coat and shoes. He at least removed his lone glove, and it lays abandoned on the floor--with his keys. They walk in. Sherlock takes one of the glasses and sets it, with the aspirin, on the night table. Then he shakes James' shoulder with a light hand. Not the best move, he knows, but he hardly sees an alternative.

"James, wake up, son. Just for a minute."

James is alert at the first touch, flailing to push the unexpected hand away. He blinks a few times and the fear in his eyes vanishes as quickly as it came up.

"Come on," Sherlock says gently, "up you go."

He holds his hand out to James, who considers it for a few seconds before taking it and allowing Sherlock to draw him to his feet.

"You said..." His brow furrows. "I can..."

"Yes, you can sleep here," Sherlock soothes him. "But let's take your coat off first, shall we?"

He waits for another blink and a slight nod before reaching for the buttons. The Belstaff smells like it was used to mop up a brewery. It'll need dry-cleaning, for sure. Underneath, James wears an unbuttoned gray shirt over a black T. 

"Shirt off?" Sherlock asks, and again wait for a nod before tugging it off James.

"Sit," John says, and when James complies, he hands him the glass. "Drink this. There's another one and aspirin on the night table for when you wake up. All right?"

James looks at Sherlock, now crouching in front of him and unlacing his shoes, then at the glass in his hand, at the night table, and finally up at John. "'Right," he echoes, and after another beat empties the glass of water in one go.

"Do you need anything else?" Sherlock asks, standing again.

James shakes his head - and grimaces at the movement. 

"Thank you," he mumbles, and turns over to grab the pillow. He's asleep again at once.

John grabs the blanket folded at the foot of the bed and draws it over him. A last shared look, and they go back downstairs, leaving the door slightly open behind them. John settles down with his book again, while Sherlock pulls out his violin. Morning can't come soon enough.

*

James' head is pounding. Something seems to have crawled in his mouth and died there. His eyes feel so encrusted with gritty sand he might need a shovel to ever clear them again. And God, his head is _pounding_.

He's never felt that way before. He's never drunk to excess before. If this is the aftermath, he might never do it again.

After long, long minutes of alternating feeling sorry for himself and calling himself an idiot, he finally manages to sit up. Another few moments, and his head stops spinning too much for him to open his eyes. He looks around blearily, and doesn't immediately recognize his surroundings. Then he sees the glass of water and the aspirin tab on the night table, and it all comes back to him. Passing a hand over his face, he groans.

Great. Bad enough that he acted like an idiot. His dads know he did. And they'll have questions, no doubt.

He washes the aspirin down with the tepid water and waits a few moments for it too take effect; no such luck. Remembering he has a change of clothes in here, he forces himself to his feet, grabs his clothes, and stumbles down the steps. He pretends not to see them in the sitting room and makes a bee line for the bathroom. When he comes out again a good half hour later, he feels mostly human. At the very least, he smells better.

"Coffee?" John offers, standing in the kitchen with a mug already in hand.

There's a wry smile hanging from the corner of his mouth, but his eyes speak of the same worry inscribed in every inch of Sherlock's tense body as he leans against the door and watches James from freshly scrubbed hair to still bare toes.

"Coffee sounds awesome," James says, accepting the mug.

He'd like nothing more than to disappear back in his room for a while, wallowing in shame and self-pity until his headache recedes, but it's not going to be that easy, is it? So he sits at the table, and waits for the questions he knows will be coming.

He doesn't have to wait long.

"How's your head?" John asks, that wry smile still hanging there.

James grunts around a sip of coffee.

"It's been better."

"First hangover?" Sherlock asks, his eyes still assessing behind his rimless glasses.

"First and last for a long, long time."

He's always been wary of alcohol, the memory of his father with a glass of scotch in hand being less than pleasant. He'll be even more careful now.

"Do you want to tell us why?" is Sherlock's next question. James makes himself meet his eyes, and he sees a different question there - or maybe a hope. The hope that there _is_ a why, that it wasn't just drinking to excess for the sake of it.

James doesn't really feel like talking about it, but letting Sherlock and John believe there was no reason to this mistake is unthinkable. He knows how much they'd worry.

"Laure is in town," he says, addressing the words to his soon to be empty cup of coffee. "We had a talk yesterday. We agreed it'd be better to... well, it was her idea,mostly, but..."

His throat feels too tight to finish, but thank goodness his eyes aren't watering.

John claps him on the shoulder, then refills his mug. 

"Sorry to hear," he says, truly sounding sympathetic. "I know how much she meant to you."

 _Means_ , James wants to correct him. _Still, always_ , but he just nods and takes another sip.

"Did you go drinking alone, then?" John asks.

"Nah. Called a couple friends. I doubt they're in this kind of state this morning though."

John chuckles quietly, then claps his shoulder again. This time his hand lingers a little, rubbing small circles, offering comfort before John retreats to the sitting room. Sherlock doesn't move. James keeps his eyes on his coffee and waits for what's coming. He can't remember the last time he was so scared of what his Dad might say. They've talked about alcohol and drugs before, and James knows Sherlock must be disappointed in him. It was always the worst, as he was growing up, feeling like he was disappointing him.

"You did the right thing," Sherlock says after clearing his throat. 

James' head jerks up in surprise.

"Coming home, I mean," Sherlock goes on. "You know you can always come back, right? For whatever reason. We'll always be there for you."

This time, the tears do come. James lets them. He hears more than see Sherlock coming closer, and stands to accept the rare hug being offered to him. Sherlock doesn't say anything more, doesn't claim the hurt will go away or that James will find someone else, and for that James is grateful. It's a long time before the tears stop coming. Even then, Sherlock doesn't let go until James starts pulling back.

"I lost my first love before," he says very softly, his eyes fleeting toward the sitting room. "I know what that feels like."

James manages a small smile. "I remember. I was there."

Sherlock nods. Neither mentions that Sherlock got John back in the end. It's not the point.

"Do you want to move back in for a few days? A couple of weeks?"

The offer is tempting, and James does consider it for a few seconds before shaking his head.

"I'll be all right. But if you don't mind, I might drop in a bit more often."

"Of course we don't mind," John replies, standing by the door where Sherlock was earlier. "I just called Angelo's, we've got a table waiting for us, if you're up for some food."

James nods and excuses himself to first wash his face, and then go up to his room to find socks and his coat. It's on a hanger behind the door, the dry-cleaning tag still attached to the first button. Smiling to himself, James puts it on, then his shoes. He's lost Laure, or at least he lost her as a lover, but he has his dads, and that's all he needs right now.


	12. 14 - The King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuing after The List
> 
> Disclaimer- all I know of therapy I learned from tv and movies... and we all know how accurate that can be... Let's just say Dr. June is an oddball who does things her own way, shall we?

James walks into Doctor Osborn’s office with his list clutched in his hand. He ended up typing and printing it. He didn’t like the way his handwriting got progressively worse until it was all but illegible on the last line.

She welcomes him with a smile and asks if he had a good week. He answers absently, rote words falling from his lips as he waits for her to collect his ‘homework’. Instead, she gestures for him to come with her to the sitting area. There’s a cabinet behind her chair. It was closed last time. Today, it’s open, and James can see piles of boxes inside.

“Go ahead and pick something,” Doctor Osborn says.

While James hesitantly approaches the cabinet and peers in, she draws the small, square coffee table that was pushed against the wall to the space between the armchairs. James glances at her before looking at the boxes again. They’re board games, he soon realizes. He doesn’t recognize many of them. Cluedo is one; he played that with Sherlock and John, a couple of times. He’s not sure playing with just two people would be much fun. He ends up picking up the chessboard. He takes it to the coffee table, but hesitates before setting it down.

“Are we... going to play?” he asks.

She takes the board from him, unfolds it to reveal the bag of pieces inside, then places it on the table and starts setting up as she replies.

“We are going to play, yes. We won’t do it every time, but I find it helps sometimes to be doing something other than stare at each other while we talk. I assume you know how to play chess if you chose this?”

“I do, yes.”

Rather than perching himself on the edge of the armchair, he kneels on the floor and helps her finish setting up the board. His printed list is on the floor next to him. Out of sight, out of mind, he hopes. Doctor Osborn joins him on the floor, and soon the pieces are ready. She picks two pawns, one in each hand, makes him choose. She goes first.

“Who taught you?” she asks as she makes her first move.

James plays slowly. And replies at the same pace.

“My father.”

“You mean your biological father, correct?”

He nods. “Yes. Jim. That was a long time ago, and I haven’t played in a while, so I doubt you’ll find me a good player.”

Just as he finishes, he takes her knight; she laughs softly.

“Let me be the judge of that. Can you tell me about him?”

His hand was already moving toward the next piece, but at her question he stills, looks at her rather than at the board.

“You mean... those things you wanted me to write down for today?”

“You can tell me what you wrote if you want. Or you can tell me something else if you prefer. Was he a good player, do you think?”

James shifts a little, sitting rather than kneeling. That it takes him lower, half hidden behind the chess pieces, is maybe not a coincidence. It’s harder to play this way, but he manages.

“I guess. I mean, I was four when he started teaching me, I think. Or maybe five. And I never saw him play against anyone else. But he was... He liked games. Everything was a game for him. And he always had to be the winner. I guess it was the same with chess.”

Except he lost his last game, didn’t he? On that roof, he was cornered and he laid down the king.

Silence stretches over three or four moves, and James prepares himself, more and more certain that she’s going to ask about Jim’s suicide. He doesn’t want to talk about it, doesn’t want to think about the void inside his chest that seems to grow again every time he thinks about his father with a gun in his hand and a hole in his head, but he supposes that’s part of why he’s here, isn’t it?

“Did he teach you other things?”

The question takes him by surprise, and his hand jerks, knocking over a rook. He rights it up before playing. She’s taken two of his pieces while he’s captured four of hers, but somehow he feels like she’s got a better control of the board than he does.

“A lot of things,” he replies quietly. “I was... homeschooled, I guess you’d call it, and he was the one who taught me to read and write and count. He taught me French and German, and geography, and history. He taught me to swim, and to ride a horse and a bicycle. He taught me to play piano and to read music.” Snorting softly, he makes his move and finishes with, “And he taught me to hold my breath before I press the trigger of a gun.”

Her hand stills above her queen and she looks at him, meets his eyes. In the end, she moves her surviving knight instead.

“He taught you to shoot a gun,” she says, and it doesn’t sound like a question, so James doesn’t reply. “Did you like that?”

“Did I like killing birds and rabbits?” he shoots back deadpan. “No. I did not. But I didn’t have much of a choice.”

He can see her taking this in, can practically hear the gears in her mind working on overdrive.

“I haven’t killed anything since, in case you’re wondering,” he says dryly. “I think he was trying to teach me how to be a perfect little psychopath, but I’m fairly certain he failed. Although I suppose you’re the expert and you’ll be the judge of that, too. Mate in three.”

At this point, Doctor Osborn does two things--and both are totally unexpected. She smiles--and then she moves her queen and announces, “Checkmate.”

A couple of minutes later, James is still staring at the board, trying to understand how he lost so quickly.

“You’ve got a fairly dark sense of humor, don’t you?” Doctor Osborn says.

“Were you going to let me win?” he asks instead of answering, gesturing at a couple of pieces on the board. “Earlier, you were going to play your queen, but I’d have taken it regardless of what you did. And then you moved your knight instead.”

When she doesn’t reply right away, he meets her eyes over the board. She’s still smiling. It’s a very soft smile. Molly looks at him like that, sometimes.

“Not let you win,” she says, tilting her head. “But I considered letting the game go longer, yes. Do you mind losing?”

“I’d have minded a lot more if you’d let me win.”

“I had a feeling it might be the case. Why did you pick this game?”

He wouldn’t mind a rematch, but she’s already putting the pieces away. He helps her.

“I only knew a couple of games in the cabinet,” he admits. “And like I said, I hadn’t played in a while. I wanted to see if I remembered how.” He shakes his head, smiling ruefully. “Father would have been appalled.”

After putting the game away, she sits in her armchair, her feet tucked under her. She’s barefoot, he notices. Her flat-heeled shoes are next to her chair. He doesn’t know why, but it makes him feel a little more comfortable. Part of him scoffs that it’s probably the goal of this casual demeanor; he doesn’t really care.

“Appalled that you lost?” she asks.

He nods once, then rests his head back against the edge of the armchair behind him. He should sit there, maybe, but he doesn’t feel like moving. Doesn’t feel either like explaining that Jim would have berated him for being blind to the trap she was building for him. It was obvious in hindsight. He should have been paying attention rather than let her questions distract him. Wasn’t it supposed to be the game that would distract him from her questions?

“Do you miss him?”

 _This_ question is such a total non sequitur that he only frowns at her for a moment, until she says, “From what you’ve told me of him so far, he was not an easy person to be with. Some people would stay away from reminders of such persons. But you picked a game he taught you to play. You could have chosen any game and I’d have taught you the rules, but you picked this one. You don’t seem upset about losing, but you made a point to comment on how he would have been disappointed.”

So, maybe not a non sequitur.

“Sometimes,” he says, but falters and considers his words before starting over. “Sometimes he wasn’t all that bad. When he taught me to ride, that was fun. And we went ice skating sometimes. And when he taught me chess, he was really... patient. He wasn’t a patient man usually, so I don’t know what it was about chess that was different. Those times, I miss. And I wish... I wish he hadn’t killed himself. But I don’t think I miss him, if that makes sense.”

“It makes complete sense, of course. Most of the time, we don’t love or hate every little part of the people in our lives. We can take the good while still rejecting the bad.”

Sherlock told him something like that, once. It’s still something James struggles with. He has a feeling he’s going to struggle with it for a long time.

“All right, let’s move on,” Doctor Osborn says when he doesn’t respond. “Do you want to read me what you wrote about the people in your life?” After a quick look at the clock on the wall, she amends her words. “Or actually, I don’t think we’ll have time for all of them, so why don’t you choose one person to read to me now, and I’ll look over the rest later?”

James picks up that printed paper very slowly, as though giving himself a few more seconds will help him decide which name to choose. His eyes run over the list; it seems very short, in 12 point, sans serif font. Wholly inadequate as far as explaining who any of these people are to him. But it’s a beginning, he supposes. He looks down the list again, trying to choose. Some options would be easy.

Too easy, maybe.

His eyes linger on the last line. Before he knows it, his lips are forming the words.

“Sebastian used to kill people on my father’s orders. They were lovers.”

The silence that follows can’t last more than a second or two, but it’s still too long and he hurries to add, “What you were saying about not hating every little bit of someone? I don’t think that applies to Sebastian.”

“And that’s completely fine,” Doctor Osborn says without missing a beat. “Your feelings are valid, whatever they are, simply because they are yours. You don’t have to explain yourself.”

Which is a nice sentiment, and yet...

“Isn’t the whole point of me being here is to explain why I feel a certain way?”

“No, the point of you being here is to stop having nightmares and panic attacks. Talking about what causes them is a means to an end.”

It feels like a game of semantics; are they still playing? He looks at the clock. A few minutes left still. He doesn’t know what else to say.

“Have you had any, this past week?” At his blank look, she adds, “Nightmares or panic attacks.”

“No panic attack, no. I did have a dream about Sebastian a couple of days ago. Not really a nightmare, just a bad dream.”

“What’s the difference?”

He blinks a couple of times as he tries to find the words. Images of that bad dream are resurfacing. Sebastian wasn’t really doing anything in that dream. He was just there, lurking in the background, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, his eyes dark whenever James glanced his way while doing otherwise typically odd dream things. Nightmares are usually memories, sometimes mashed together, sometimes excruciating in their details.

“There’s a difference,” is all he says, his throat so tight that the words come out a little rough.

She seems to understand that he’s reached his limit for today, because she doesn’t push. Instead, she asks him to close his eyes.

“Why?” he can’t help but immediately question.

“Just for a minute. I want to try an exercise with you.”

Both his hands clutch his ankle tight. He closes his eyes, though he can’t help but frown as he does.

“Is there a place where you feel safe?”

He doesn’t have to think about his answer.

“Yes. Home.”

Baker Street, he means. The Knightsbridge house hasn’t been home in a long time.

“Can you picture it in your mind? With as many details as possible?”

If he knew her better, he’d tell her about his mind palace. Some day, he will, maybe. Right now, all he says is, “Yes.”

And he does see it in his mind, every last object in its place. Most are memory cues, but he doesn’t reach for any of them.

“Good. Take a few deep breaths, and settle yourself in that image. Let yourself feel safe. Calm. At peace. Take as long as you need. When you feel ready, open your eyes again.”

For a second or two, James wants to open his eyes right away. He’s fine. He’s not sure what this is about, he’s just fine. He’s calm already, he’s...

But he’s not, is he?

His heart is beating so fast it almost hurts. He didn’t notice until now because he’s used to it. It always happens when he talks about Sebastian, and sometimes when he talks about his father, too. But Doctor Osborn did notice. And this... this exercise, as she called it... this helps. His breathing calms down, and after--a minute? Two? Three?--he opens his eyes again. She’s watching him, her expression serene. She’s picked up the printed sheet and it’s now on the table. There’s no indication whether she read it yet or not.

“Calmer?” she asks.

“Yeah, I...” He shrugs a little, looks at the lake painting over her desk, clears his throat. “I’ve done this before, actually. A while back, Sherlock suggested something like this for when I go to bed.”

She raises a curious eyebrow. “Oh? And have you been doing it? Does it help at all with your nightmares?”

“I haven’t done it in a while. There’s been a lot going on, I forgot about it.”

His homework, this week, is to do this exercise every night before sleep, and keep track of his dreams.

On the way home, Sherlock doesn’t ask how things went today, but he’s looking at James closely enough that it’s clear he’s wondering.

“Do you know how to play chess?” James asks him, and then, “I’m a bit rusty, do you want to play with me?”


End file.
